


listening to the rules

by Mizzy



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M, POV Original Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-08
Updated: 2012-03-08
Packaged: 2017-11-01 15:54:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizzy/pseuds/Mizzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Keep your head down. You can survive this thing longer than anyone... And for goodness’ sake, Ember, listen to the rules.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	listening to the rules

_ Keep your head down. If there’s coverage, aim for it. If you can’t find provisions, cover your head with your arms. Better an injury there than no head. Stay low, run for cover. If there’s a bag in easy grasp, go for it. If not, remember your learning. You can survive this thing longer than anyone. And for goodness’ sake, Ember, listen to the rules. You don’t want to be out of the game early on. _

The words of my mentor are clear in my ears. I am not going to forget them. You try forgetting the only sober words you manage to wring out of your mentor, words that are supposed to be the only key to lead you to your survival.

Our mentor is probably the worst mentor any of the tributes has, but that’s not his fault. Haymitch is the only living District 12 tribute to have ever come out trumps in the Hunger Games. Pall and I are lucky that it was a late enough game for him to have been at least of slight use to us.

I remember the smell of the White Spirit on Haymitch’s breath, but thankfully I remembered the words I teased out of him better. I repeat them under my breath. _Keep your head down, keep your head down._ I remember them in order, I remember them backwards, anything to keep them fresh in my mind. Anything to make sure they are ready.

Sitting on the ship on the way to the arena is the best option. My shaking legs would give away too many of my nerves. Pall is mirroring me, back against the wall, his fingers playing with something in his pocket. Probably his token.

Mine is at my neck, secured by a loose piece of string. I finger the curve of it, the smoothness of the wood under my finger tips a sad tug at my memory. I remember making it. I remember the day my father taught me to whittle wood. I remember his sad stare at the Reaping, like I was already dead.

I remember how he didn’t come to say goodbye.

The ship descends and rough hands push us into position. Then there’s a beep, like something’s being set off, and then there’s a cool wind on the back of my neck as our captors leave us there. Someone pushes their face near my ear and whispers, harsh, “Stay still, poppet. Stay very still.” The words sound like help, but their tone says they’re enjoying this way too much. The man steps back. The rumours say that in a couple of years they’ll be dumping tributes in the arena by transport cylinder, but I won’t be around to see that.

My hair lifts up into the air as the ship and the people pull away, and despite my unease at the man’s tone in my ear, I stay still. Rigid. We all know where we are. We all know we’re stood on the starting point of the Hunger Games, the explosives that will take our lives if we step from them before the counter gets to zero.

The lights come on. I can see where we are now. The arena is barren. The cornucopia is in the centre, surrounded by a lake. In the distance there are some rocks, and I can see the tip of a tree to the South where the arena dips. That’s the direction to go to survive.

Claudius Templesmith’s voice is late, but there’s a hiss of static, and his booming voice is all we can hear. “Ladies and gentleman! Let the 70th Hunger Games Begin!”

Sixty seconds. That’s what we’ve got. If we step onto the mines surrounding us before the counter is up, we are toast.

I look around and find Pall a couple of metres away, standing upright, his face blank. I know he’s fighting his emotions and fear. I know that expression. I know his face. I know he’s worried about his two sisters and how they’ll cope without him. I know he’s worried about his mother and how she’s going to run the shop without him. I know he’s not worried about me, because I’m just another face at school, a face he doesn’t know. A face of a girl who used to mean nothing to him, and is now a girl who could kill him, an obstacle to him living. But Pall’s not nothing to me.

He’s a couple of years ahead of me in school. And even though I’m sure he doesn’t remember, he stopped me being hassled by a Peacekeeper when I was small. Once, he even shared part of his lunch with me when I didn’t have any and hadn’t eaten for three days. But I remember his blank eyes when they called my name. I remember the way he asked who I was when we were on the train. He doesn’t remember me. I remember everything about him. I always have. I also remember the moment they called his name at the Reaping. I was already on the stage. No one thought my trembling fall to my knees was because of him. They thought I was only concerned for myself.

They were wrong.

”Pall.” I call his name. He blinks. “Pall.” He looks at me, still blank faced. This is it. This is my only chance. I could say “I’ve always loved you” but that would be crass, and would lose his attention. This is my only chance at his eyes on me and I will not waste this opportunity. “Keep your head down. If there’s coverage, aim for it. If you can’t find provisions, cover your head with your arms. Better an injury there than no head. Stay low, run for cover. If there’s a bag in easy grasp, go for it. If not, remember your learning. You can survive this thing longer than anyone. And for goodness’ sake, listen to the rules.”

His eyes change from blankness to confusion. “Ember?” His voice is pure question.

”It’s all I could get from Haymitch,” I say. My eyes waver to the counter, bright in the sky. 20 seconds. My fingers close around the token lying heavy on my neck – a wooden ball. Nothing dangerous, nothing violent, nothing secret about it at all. Except for the fact that it’s got weight, and just like Haymitch told me, I listened to the rules. The mines we are stood inside will go off at even the smallest amount of pressure if we step on them before the counter hits zero.

”I want you to live,” I tell Pall. “Live for me.”

I hold out the ball. Pall’s eyes go from it to my face. The counter’s still got 10 seconds. Shock bleaches his expression. It’s not my favourite expression of his, but his face is still the last thing I get to see before I die.

I am happy of his extra chance of survival, one obstacle between life and death out of his way. I keep my eyes on Pall, drop the ball, and smile.

 

 

  


_"The_ _mines are set off by pressure. It doesn’t have to be a lot, either. One year, a girl dropped her token, a small wooden ball, while she was at her plate, and they literally had to scrape bits of her off the ground." **Suzanne Collins // The Hunger Games**_


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